


Offsprings

by ariel2me



Series: Drabble/Ficlet Collection [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and ficlets about children and childhood in A Song of Ice and Fire.</p><p>Chapter 13: Shireen, Edric and Devan, story time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Edric Storm and Shireen Baratheon

**Monsters and Maidens (Edric Storm & Shireen Baratheon)**

_We were playing monsters and maidens,” he explained. “I was the monster. It’s a childish game but my cousin likes it.” (A Storm of Swords)_

__________________

When he thought of her - _if_ he thought of her at all - mostly he thought of that game they used to play, in Aegon’s Garden. Monsters and maidens. (There was no ‘ _if_ ’ about it, not if he was being honest with himself. He thought aboutShireen every single day; every day that he was in exile, that they were apart.)

He was the monster and she was the maiden, at first, but they soon grew tired of that, and then they were both the monsters, chasing imaginary maidens only they could see.

Patchface was recruited to play the maiden once. It was a spectacular failure. The fool refused to run or hide, trailing Shireen as if she were his savior instead of the monster preying on him. Devan was a more willing and eager participant - his terrified shriek when monster!Shireen and monster!Edric were approaching was quite an accomplished piece of acting, Edric thought - but Devan was often too busy with his squiring duties to join them in their play.  

Just before Edric left Dragonstone, he and Shireen had been playing at being maidens, chased by awakened stone dragons bent on devouring them whole, feasting on their flesh. The dreams had terrified Shireen, but the act of reenacting those dreams seemed to bring her some strange comfort.

Edric had balked at playing the maiden, to begin with. “Why can’t I be the brave knight rescuing you from the dragon? Why do we both have to be the maidens?”

“Even a brave knight can’t kill a dragon with just his sword,” Shireen had pointed out. “And this way, we can both run, together.”

They held hand and ran, together. Ran from an imaginary threat that turned out to be not so imaginary after all.

It did not take Edric long to realize that he and cousin Andrew were on the run. _An adventure_ , Lord Davos had called it. _The start of your life’s great adventure._ _No, you may not bid farewell to Princess Shireen, but you can write her a letter. Later._

Later never came. Later was when he was told that his uncle Stannis would not look too kindly on a letter from Edric to his daughter. Later was when he was reminded of how he was conceived, and the shame it had brought toStannis Baratheon and his lady wife.

Much later was when he understood that they were not going home any time soon. Not to Storm’s End, not even to Dragonstone.

And certainly not to Shireen.

Much, much later was when he finally understood why he had been sent away. Smuggled away under the cover of darkness by men willing to risk their own lives to save his.

_Why do you think I was the one chosen,_ _Shireen_ _? If your father truly is the rightful king, then you have king’s blood in you as well. If sacrifice truly must be hard, or it is no sacrifice at all, then which is harder, to kill a daughter - your heir, your one and only child - or to kill a despised bastard nephew?_

But what kind of a monster would he have to be to ask those questions of his cousin? Or to wish that she had been the one chosen? No, he did not wish that at all. He could not wish that, ever. He was not a monster.

It was not Shireen who owed him the answers. It was her father.  _He_  was the monster.


	2. Trystane Martell and Rosamund Lannister

**The Prince and the Handmaiden (Trystane Martell & Rosamund Lannister)**

“Did you meet with any problems?” “Only Trystane. He wanted to sit beside Myrcella’s bedside and play cyvasse with her.” “He had redspots when he was four, I told you. You can only get it once. You should have put out that Myrcella was suffering from greyscale, that would have kept him well away.” ( _A Feast for Crows_ )

\------------------

“You’re not Myrcella.”

Rosamund froze. _No one would come close enough to see that you are not me_ , Myrcella had reassured her. But now here was Prince Trystane, close enough to see –

Her face was hidden by the veil; her hair, straight, instead of Myrcella’s golden curls that Rosamund had always envied, hidden by the cloak. _If I keep quiet, perhaps he will go away. Perhaps he will think he is mistaken …_

To open her mouth and speak would be the greatest danger; Trystane knew Myrcella’s voice well enough. He would not be deceived.

He would not be deterred from his questions either, to Rosamund’s consternation. “Where is my sweet princess? Where has she been hiding?”

The prince was staring at Rosamund through the veil. “May I?” He asked, his hands about to lift the veil to reveal Rosamund’s face.

“No!” Rosamund exclaimed, turning away from Trystane sharply. “You … you shouldn’t be here. Redspots is highly contagious.”

“You’re Rosamund, Myrcella’s handmaiden,” Trystane said with astonishment, recognizing her voice. “I thought it was Myrcella playing some game, a fun new game she wants us to play. But you’re really not Princess Myrcella.”

No, not Princess Myrcella. Only her handmaiden. Only her distant Lannister cousin from Lannisport, not even from Casterly Rock. Only her double, here to shield her from any who wished to do Myrcella harm. A game, Septa Eglantine had called it, when she dyed Myrcella’s hair brown and dressed Rosamund in Myrcella’s clothes on the voyage to Dorne. But both girls knew the real reason – to confuse the enemy in case their ship was taken by Stannis Baratheon’s men.

“Where is Princess Myrcella?”

“You must leave, Prince Trystane. Redspots –“

“Were you told to repeat the same thing over and over again? I had redspots when I was four. You can only have it once.”

Rosamund tried another ploy. “You should not have disturbed Princess Myrcella when she is ill, Your Grace. It is not very kind. The princess is always telling me how kind and considerate you are. She would not be very pleased to hear about this.”

Trystane stared at Rosamund with disbelief. “But Myrcella is not even here.”

“But you didn’t know that when you came into the room, not until I spoke.”

Trystane looked embarrassed. “Yes, well ….” He paused, staring down at his feet for a few moments before lifting up his head again. “I came to see if Myrcella would like some company. It must be very tiresome to be stuck in your bedchamber for days and days. I thought I could read to her, or we could play cyvasse. I didn’t come here to disturb the princess,” he said, sounding defensive.

“I’m sure Princess Myrcella would understand, and appreciate your good intentions,” Rosamund replied.

“You still haven’t told me where Myrcella is. Is she with Ser Arys? Have they gone somewhere? I won’t tell anyone, as long as I know that she is not in any danger.”

“Ser Arys has taken Princess Myrcella away, to keep her safe,” Rosamund said quickly. “Only temporarily, until things have calmed down. We heard them on the streets, shouting for vengeance for Prince Oberyn. Shouting for … for Lannister blood.”

“My uncle was beloved by the people,” Trystane said carefully, side-stepping the issue of Lannister blood.

“I … I’m sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

“My father’s grief is the greater. He has lost both his sister and his brother. I still have mine, even if I rarely see Quentyn, and Arianne is too preoccupied with her duties and grown-up matters to have much time for her little brother.”

Rosamund stayed silent, not knowing what to say. Myrcella would have known what to say and what to do, Rosamund suspected, but she was not Myrcella.

It was Trystane who broke the long silence. “Would you like to play cyvasse? It must be very dull for you, all alone up here.”

“I don’t know how to play, Your Grace. Princess Myrcella tried to teach me, but the rules are too hard, and there are too many pieces.”

“I can try to teach you if you’d like. I was the one who taught Myrcella how to play the game,” Trystane said. “Would you like me to teach you, Rosamund?”

Rosamund would like to pretend for just one afternoon that she was the one betrothed to Trystane Martell, the one beating him constantly at cyvasse, the one putting a smile on his solemn face. That _she_ was the real thing, the actual princess, not a mere double meant to confuse the enemy.

“Yes, Your Grace, I would like that very much,” she replied.

 

 

 


	3. Devan Seaworth and Stannis Seaworth

**Stannis & Stannis **

Stannis Seaworth meeting his namesake Stannis Baratheon for the first time.

\-----------------------------

“You are called Stanny.”

His hands and feet still trembling, the boy nodded slowly. “I am, my lord.”

“It is a boy’s name, Stanny.”

“I am a boy, my lord,” Stanny replied quickly, before the meaningful look from Devan could warn him that it was not the right thing to say.

“Yes, I can see quite clearly that you are a boy.”

“Please forgive my brother, Lord Stannis. He does not mean to sound insolent,” Devan interjected, looking worried.

“He can speak for himself, I’m sure. Why are you not called Stannis, when that is your real name?”

“I will be, my lord, when I am older. My mother says Stanny is good enough for now.”

 _A good name for a good boy_ , Mother had said.

“And is your brother Steffon called Steffy?” Lord Stannis was asking.

“Not Steffy. He is called Steff.”

“Why is that? If you are to be called Stanny, then by right your brother should be called Steffy. Or if your family wishes to call him Steff, then you should be Stan, not Stanny. Why the irregularity and the inconsistency in the names you are called, when you are brothers?”

Stanny turned to look at Devan for help, but Devan looked as perplexed as Stanny was feeling. A comforting squeeze of his hand was the only help Devan managed to give his little brother.

“I … I’m not sure, my lord. You would have to ask my father and mother,” Stanny replied. After a moment’s pause, he braved himself to ask the question that had been consuming his interest and curiosity since the day he was told that he was named in honor of Lord Stannis Baratheon. “Were you … were you called Stanny as a boy, my lord? Or Stan?”

Devan moved even closer towards his brother, tightening his hold on Stanny’s hand, as if he was expecting Lord Stannis to erupt in anger.

 _Was that the wrong thing to ask?_ Stanny was more afraid for Devan than for himself. Father would take him home to Mother and Steff where it’s warm and safe when the visit was over , but Devan had to stay here with Lord Stannis, and what if he took out his anger on Devan? What if Devan was punished for Stanny’s mistake?

_I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make Lord Stannis angry!_

To the Seaworth brothers’ surprise, Lord Stannis’ stern and forbidding expression actually softened into something almost resembling amusement. “Well, well, I see that your little brother is bolder than you are, Devan. Devan has been my squire almost half a year, and he has never asked me that question.” Here Lord Stannis’ expression turned grim again. “Boldness can so quickly turn into rashness and recklessness, however, if you do not watch yourself. My brothers can tell you a thing or two about that. Caution is a great and worthy virtue, often overlooked and underappreciated, unfortunately. Mind that you remember that, Stannis Seaworth.”

Stanny nodded quickly. “Yes, my lord. I will remember that.”

“I was never called Stanny, or Stan. I was always Stannis, from the day I was born. My lady mother did once consider calling me –“ Lord Stannis abruptly broke off his recollection at this point. “Never mind that. This is your first time coming to court, Devan told me.”

“Yes, my lord,” Stanny replied eagerly. “Father said I am old enough to come. I had my seventh nameday last month. Steff wanted to come too. We both so wanted to visit Devan, but Mother said Steff is too young to go to King’s Landing.”

“How old is your brother Steffon?”

“He is four, my lord.”

“I was four the first time my father took me to court. I was so little my brother Robert had to hold my hand the whole time. Perhaps your mother was wise not to let your little brother come.”

“Did you … did you see the king on the throne, when you came to court the first time?” Stanny asked.

“No, we did not. We thought we did, but it was not actually the king we saw sitting on the throne. It was the Hand. And you will not be seeing the king on your visit either. King Robert,” Stannis paused, gritting his teeth, looking displeased, “has gone hunting. _Again_.”

“We have taken too much of your time, my lord,”Devan said quickly, sensing that Stannis’ temper was rising.

“I have need of your father’s service for the day. Your brother Devan will have to be the one to show you around,” Stannis told the boy named in his honor.

“Yes, my lord.”

“The castle is a big and confusing place, especially if you have never been here before. You are a brave boy, I’m sure, as all Ser Davos’ sons must be, but perhaps it is best to hold on tightly to your brother’s hand for today. This is your first time coming to court after all.”

 


	4. Devan, Stannis and Steffon Seaworth

**Of dragons and farewells – Devan Seaworth, Stannis Seaworth and Steffon Seaworth**

_One day,_ _he told himself._ _One day when the war is done and King Stannis sits the Iron Throne and has no more need of onion knights. I’ll take Devan with me. Steff and Stanny too if they’re old enough. We’ll see these dragons and all the wonders of the world. (A Dance with Dragons)_

________________

“Are there really dragons there?” Steff asked, eyes wide with wonder and amazement.

“Not real dragons,” Stanny replied before Devan could. “It’s called Dragonstone, not Dragonland. And all the dragons are dead, I told you that already, many, many times.”

“There are stone carvings of dragons all over the island. The castle itself is shaped like a dragon, that’s what Father said,” Devan told his two younger brothers.

“So it’s like you’re living inside a dragon. What if your bedchamber is in the dragon’s mouth? With teeth and tongue and gross slime and who knows what else,“ Steff said, looking thrilled and disgusted in equal measure.

Devan smiled. “I don’t think the carvers went into that much detail. The castle may look like a dragon from the outside, but I think the inside is just the same like any other castle.”

“Not the same,” Stanny disagreed. “Dragonstone has … _that_ man. The scary man.”

“What man? What scary man? Are you going to a place with a scary man, Devan? Why do you have to go there?” Steff asked, looked scared.

“No one,” Devan replied, throwing Stanny a sharp glance. “Stanny is talking nonsense. There is nothing for you to worry about.”

Steff stomped his feet. “It’s not fair! You two are always keeping secrets from me, whispering about things I’m not supposed to know. Just because I’m the youngest -”

“Well, you _are_ the youngest,” Stanny interrupted.

“When Devan is gone, you will _have_ to tell me _all_ the secrets, Stanny. There is no one else left,” Steff replied, triumphant.

“The Others take your secrets,” Stanny exclaimed with anger.

“You’re not supposed to swear. Mother said so,” Steff said doggedly.

Devan got between his brothers. “Are you so eager to have me gone?” He asked Steff, his hands smoothing the boy’s unruly hair.

Steff frowned. “No, I’m not. You know I’m not. I don’t want you to leave at all. But Mother said we must not cry because that will make you sad. I don’t want to make you sad, Devan.”

Steff looked like he was about to cry anyway, tears pooling in his brown eyes.

“I’ll tell you a secret, if you promise not to cry,” Stanny told his little brother. He whispered something into Steff’s ear. The boy exclaimed, “Oh!”

“What did Stanny tell you?” Devan asked.

“He said you’re going to be a squire to a very special lord, a lord with dragon blood in him. Is that true, Devan?”

Devan nodded. “Lord Stannis’ grandmother was a Targaryen. She is dead now, but she was the daughter of a Targaryen king.”

“Did she ride a dragon? Was it a girl dragon or a boy dragon? What did she feed her dragon?” Steff asked eagerly. He was mad for any story about dragons and their riders.

“She didn’t have a dragon. All the dragons were long dead by the time she was born,” Devan replied.

“But Lord Stannis must know _lots_ and _lots_ of stories about dragons. You must tell me all about it when you come home,” Steff said.

“Devan is not going to Dragonstone to play story time with Lord Stannis,” Stanny scoffed. “Being a squire is hard work. He doesn’t have time for your silliness.”  

“I know that! I’m not a baby,” Steff complained. Stanny walked away in a huff. “Stanny is so mean to me sometimes. When you’re not here, he’s going to be even _more_ horrible,” Steff confided to Devan.

“He doesn’t mean to be mean to you, Steff. You know how you usually cry when you’re sad? Well, Stanny doesn’t cry, he gets cranky instead,” Devan replied.

“Is Stanny sad because you’re leaving?”

Devan nodded.

“Are you sad too, Devan?”

Devan gathered his little brother into his embrace, to hide the tears in his eyes.


	5. Tommen Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell

**Felicitations for Our Feline Friends**

Tommen Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell would like to invite you to the wedding of Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers.

________________________

“Lady Whiskers needs a bridal cloak, Your Grace, for a proper wedding,” Margaery said softly.

Tommen hesitated only for a moment before snatching a green handkerchief of silk and lace and tying it around Lady Whiskers’ neck. The kitten writhed and wriggled, desperate to get free.

“Is Ser Pounce a Tyrell?” Margaery asked, stroking Ser Pounce’s neck as he warily watched his intended bride.

“No, Ser Pounce is a Baratheon, like me. Lady Whiskers is a Tyrell, like you,” Tommen replied, still trying to keep Lady Whiskers in his arms. “Hush, my lady. You must not frighten your bridegroom.”                 

Margaery giggled. “She’s not really a lady.”

 “She  _is._ Everyone is a lady from birth. Ser Pounce is not really a ser though, because he has not done his brave deeds and rescue children and maidens.”

“He rescued that poor mouse from Lady Whiskers’ mouth,” Margaery said.

“No,” Tommen said, “he just wanted his mouse back. Ser Pounce caught the mouse, but Lady Whiskers stole it from him.”

“But then the mouse escaped from them both. What a clever, clever mouse,” Margaery purred.

In truth, the mouse had a helping hand, or rather it had two helping hands from Margaery and Tommen to escape the clutches of Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers. “No, no, that’s not your wedding feast,” Tommen scolded his kittens. “You can have fish later,” Margaery promised the happy couple. “And milk too.”  

“Mother said Ser Pounce must learn to defend his rights, because the weak are always victims to the strong. But Lady Whiskers will never do anything to hurt Ser Pounce, will she?” Tommen asked, looking and sounding anxious.

“Of course not,” Margaery assured the boy, her royal husband. “Lady Whiskers will love and protect her husband, always.”

“Like you will, Margaery?” Tommen asked, with all the guilelessness of an eight-year-old.

Margaery gifted Tommen a kiss, a chaste, fleeting peck on the cheek, light and airy. “Like I will, my king. I promise.”

With Tommen distracted by the kiss, Lady Whiskers finally succeeded in her effort to escape from Tommen’s restraining hands to jump into Margaery’s lap. Ser Pounce was not best pleased to be sharing the warm and comforting space with another kitten, and he started growling loudly to show his displeasure. One scornful, withering look from Lady Whiskers was enough to silence him, however, and Ser Pounce crept meekly and quietly away, straight into Tommen’s welcoming arms.

“Should we start the ceremony?” Margaery asked, smiling.

“Yes!” Tommen replied enthusiastically.

They brought the two kittens closer together. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” Margaery said.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” Tommen echoed.

But when they tried to make Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers kiss to seal the vow, the newly-married couple resisted strenuously - claws were flexed and teeth were bared, among other things. “They’re just shy, in front of us,” Margaery said, kissing Lady Whiskers’ soft black fur.

Tommen nodded. “They will kiss and make lots and lots of babies later, when no one is watching,” he said, tickling Ser Pounce’s stomach. “We’ll have to think of names to give the little baby kittens.”

 


	6. Stannis Baratheon, Robert Baratheon, Maester Cressen

**For the prompt Stannis reading the Conquest of Dorne for the first time**

 

“The arms of House Martell,” Robert read, “display the sun and the spear, the Dor … Dor ..”

“-the Dornishman’s,” Maester Cressen interjected.

-“the Dornisman … the Dornishman’s two favorite weapons,” Robert paused, taking a breath.

-“but of the two,” he continued, “the sun is the more deadly.” Robert paused again, fidgeting and looking out the window towards the courtyard, where the men-at-arms and Lord Steffon’s household knights were training with their swords and their lances. 

“Well, go on then, read the rest of the page,” Stannis said, impatient. Robert had insisted on being the first one to read out loud during every lesson, not because he had any particular love for books and reading, but because as he was constantly reminding Stannis,“I’m the oldest!” and therefore he should come first in everything.  

Robert closed the book in front of him with a thud. In a sweet, charming voice he asked, “May I be excused, please, Maester? Before he left for King’s Landing, Father told Donal Noye to forge a new sword for me. A _real_ sword, not a wooden one. I think I see Ser Gawen holding my sword now.”

“How do you know that is your new sword?” Stannis asked, suspicious. “It could be any old sword Ser Gawen is holding.”  

“You’re just jealous because you still have to practice with a wooden sword,” Robert’s sweetness quickly turned into venom, angry that his words were being challenged by his little brother.

“Boys, please, you must not quarrel. Remember your lord father’s instructions before he left,” Maester Cressen said with consternation. Cressen was a wise and learned maester, but discipline had never been his strong suit, and quarrelling boys more often than not left him feeling helpless and disconcerted. Lady Cassana would have been able to stop Robert and Stannis arguing merely with the raising of her eyebrow and the narrowing of her eyes, but alas, Cressen did not share that talent.

Robert turned to Cressen, the smile back on his face. “Please, Maester, may I be excused? Father will be _ever_ so happy if I can show him how good I am with a real sword. But I have to practice constantly to be good at something, that’s what you told us.”

“Well, now …” Cressen hesitated. “Only if you promise to read the rest of the chapter in your own time before our next lesson, Robert.”

“Oh thank you, Maester. Thank you so much,” Robert said effusively, bestowing a hug on Cressen. “I promise I will,” he declared as he was walking out the door. Almost in an instant, he was gone, lured away from books and lessons by the sight of men with arms.

Cressen turned around to see Stannis regarding him with something approaching disappointment. “He won’t do it, you know. Robert will not read the rest of the chapter like he promised you.” _You should have known better_ , was the unspoken rebuke from the serious, solemn boy sitting in front of Cressen.

Feeling disconcerted once again, Cressen cleared his throat and said, “Will you read the rest of the chapter out loud, Stannis?”

“Can I ask you a question first, Maester?”

“Of course, of course.”

“What did the Young Dragon mean when he said the sun is a more deadly weapon than the spear? The Dornishmen cannot take the sun and wield it in their hand as a weapon to kill someone, like they could with a spear.”

Cressen did not laugh at the question, the way some might have done. He knew Stannis well enough to know that the boy meant the question entirely sincerely and earnestly. “King Daeron did not mean it in quite such a literal way. The sun is not a weapon a Dornishman can wield in his hand, that is true; but the extreme heat has been known to kill many enemies before they could draw the blood of even one Dornishman.”

“The sun is the Dornishmen’s natural weapon then, not a man-made one. The same way the storm would hurt our enemies, if they try to take Storm’s End.”

Cressen nodded, smiling with approval at the boy’s quick understanding. Of course, the ferocious storms frequently assailing Shipbreaker Bay could hurt friends as well as foes, but Cressen did not think it the right time yet to alarm Stannis about that. He was still only a boy, no matter how strangely un-childlike he might seem at times. 

“What about the goat track, Maester?” Stannis piped up with another question.

“The goat track?” Cressen searched his recollection. They had not reached that part in the book as yet, if he was not mistaken. Stannis must have been reading ahead, impatient with the rate they were going during his shared lessons with Robert.

“Did the Young Dragon really win the war because he used goat tracks to get to Dorne? And no one else thought of that before? How clever of him.”

“It is not as simple as that,” Cressen replied, and went on to explain about ships and naval battles and the role played by Oakenfist.

“So the Young Dragon lied in his book?” Stannis asked, looking shocked. And very disappointed.

“Not lied … exactly. He was trying to make things simpler, less complicated. It is an elegantly-written book, very concise and –“

Stannis interrupted. “Why should it matter that it’s a well-written book if the writer is not telling the truth, Maester? He lied to make it seem like he was the only reason they won, like the victory was only because of his doing, and no one else’s.”

“Well, perhaps King Daeron did somewhat exaggerate his own role,” Cressen conceded, “but it was still a glorious deed, for someone so young to accomplish.”

“I should have known,” Stannis grumbled. “He sounds like Robert. When he’s writing about this great thing or that great thing he did, the Young Dragon sounds just like Robert boasting about every little thing he does.”

 


	7. Little Stags and Turtles

**For the prompt little Stannis and Cassana in bed, inspired by this fanart:<http://madaboutasoiaf.tumblr.com/post/94126853889/cassana-and-little-stannis-by-isouru>**

“One little stag, two little stags –“

“One giant stag –“

“Giant?”

“I don’t  _like_  little. Robert calls me his little brother. I’m not little!”

“He only means that you’re his younger brother.”

“Then he should say younger, not little. Little is not the  _right_  word.”

“Should we count the stags in the woods again? One giant stag, two giant stags –“

“Three giant stags, four giant stags, five giant stag, six …”

“Stannis?”

There was no reply. Persuaded that her son was finally asleep, Cassana slowly and carefully extricated herself from the bed, intending to return to her own bedchamber. She was halfway off the bed when her son’s eyes shot open.

“Mother?” Stannis called out. His hand was reaching out for her, this boy who recently had started squirming and wriggling, keen to get away, every time his mother tried to embrace him in the presence of others, even his own brother and father.  

Cassana lay back down on the bed. She brought her arms around Stannis, and this time, with no one else in the room to see it, he did not try to wriggle away from her embrace.

“Are you going to tell me what is troubling you?” That something was troubling him was clear to Cassana, from his insistence that she stayed with him tonight. It had been almost half a year since the last time Stannis had asked his mother to stay with him at night, to sing to him, and for the two of them to count stags together until he fell asleep.

The last time Cassana had offered to do so – for her own sake as much as it was for Stannis, for she missed this nighttime ritual they used to share - he had loftily announced, “I am not a baby anymore, Mother,” in a voice that Cassana scarcely recognized as coming from her own little boy.     

“Stannis?”

“I don’t want Robert to be Lord of Storm’s End,” Stannis blurted out. Both his hands were clenched tightly, his knuckles white.

 _Gods have mercy_ , Cassana swore silently. Steffon should have been the one to explain the matter of succession and inheritance to their sons; why the oldest should have everything, and the others, almost nothing. He had promised Cassana that he would, knowing that her tongue would be far too sharp and blunt were she the one who tried to explain it.

 _This is the way of the world, and we must live with it, as we must live in this world and no other, not even the better world we envisioned in our mind. The world is neither fair nor truly just, my child, and best you learn that from a young age._ No, she could not say this to her son, her solemn boy, whose face was inches apart from hers, whose eyes, deep blue, so like and yet so unlike his father’s eyes, were gazing at Cassana with an intense concentration that broke her heart.

“Robert said when he is Lord of Storm’s End, I must obey him or else he’s going to cut off my head. I told him Father won’t let him! And then Robert said Father will be dead when Robert is lord. Mother, can’t we do something to stop Robert from being lord, so Father won’t have to die?”

“Oh Stannis, Robert didn’t mean it like  _that_. It’s not that your father will die _because_  Robert is Lord of Storm’s End. Robert will be Lord of Storm’s End after your father’s death, just like your father became Lord of Storm’s End after  _his_  father died.” Cassana paused, weighing her next words carefully. “We talked about dying, remember? When you asked me about my mother?”

Stannis nodded. His right hand unclenched and reached for Cassana’s face. “I’m sorry you were sad, Mother,” he said solemnly, his fingers grazing her cheek. “Are you better now?”

Smiling, Cassana said, “I am better right this moment, yes.”

Her son was not smiling, though. She could almost hear the thoughts churning in Stannis’ head, the earnest little boy trying to work things out to its logical conclusion.   _If Mother’s mother could die when she was so young, then …_

“Should we count the stags again?” Cassana said, to distract him.

“Can we count turtles instead?”

“Of course we can. One swimming turtle, two running turtles –“

“Turtles can’t  _run_. Mother, you’re being silly!” The fleeting burst of giggles that accompanied this pronouncement was as precious to Cassana as a gale of laughter would have been, coming as it was from Stannis


	8. Little Queen

**Written for Shireen Baratheon Week on Tumblr**

**Little Queen**

> _“Don’t be afraid,” Jon told them. “There’s no harm in him, Your Grace. This is Wun Wun.”_
> 
> _“Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun.” The giant’s voice rumbled like a boulder crashing down a mountainside. He sank to his knees before them. Even kneeling, he loomed over them. “Kneel queen. Little queen.” Words that Leathers had taught him, no doubt._
> 
> _Princess Shireen’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “He’s a giant! A real true giant, like from the stories.”_
> 
> _~ A Dance with Dragons_

“He called me little queen,” Shireen told Devan, later.  

“Who did, princess? Who called you the little queen?”

“Not the little queen, just little queen,” Shireen replied. “The giant did. Wun Wun. That’s what Lord Commander Snow called him. Only his real name is something else, something longer. He told us his name, the giant did, but he talked so funny, I’m not sure what it is.” Shireen paused, reconsidering. “He didn’t really talk funny. It’s because they speak the Old Tongue where he came from, Lord Commander Snow said. Wun Wun only knows a few words of the Common Tongue.”  

A  _real_ giant, this Wun Wun, not just a really tall and big man, like the massive knight Shireen had seen during Joffrey’s nameday tourney. The Mountain That Rides, they had called him, but that one was not a real giant, not like the one from the stories. Wun Wun must be more than twice as tall as Father, Shireen reckoned. If her father stood beside Wun Wun - her father who had always seemed so tall to her, so unreachable – she wondered if the top of Father’s head would even reach the giant’s waist.

Her father was not at Castle Black, though. Shireen sighed.   

Wun Wun had not stared at Shireen’s face like most people usually did the first time they saw her; had not gazed at her with that  _look_ , that mix of pity and revulsion, the exact composition of which differed from one person to the next, some with more pity, others with more revulsion. That could be because all non-giants look the same to Wun Wun, scars or no scars, equally strange and unfathomable to him that he no longer bothered staring, but still, it was a welcome relief to Shireen nonetheless, not to be greeted with that look.     

“Weren’t you afraid, princess?” Devan asked. “I was terrified, the first time I saw the giant.”

 “I wasn’t afraid, at first,” Shireen said. “But then he laughed, and it was so  _loud_  and booming, not like anything I ever heard before. Mother pulled me back to keep me safe, and I hid in my face in her furs,” Shireen admitted.

“The Black Brothers say a giant’s laugh could put to shame the roar of a dragon,” Devan said.

“How can they tell, though? How can they know for sure? No one alive has ever heard the roar of a dragon,” pointed out Shireen. The last dragon perished during the reign of Aegon the Dragonbane, Maester Cressen had told Shireen, to calm her fear about the dragons in her dreams, the ones coming to eat her. That was more than a hundred years ago, much, much more; closer to one hundred and fifty years ago.   

The dragons in her dreams did not roar, did not make any sound at all as they were chasing her, in fact. They were as silent as the stone they were woken from, and all the more terrifying because of that.

Shireen shook her head. No, she would not think of dragons today, not when there were giants to think about. A giant! A real true giant, walking around in Castle Black. Think of that.  _I saw a giant, Edric_ , she wished she could tell her absent cousin. Edric had played at being a giant when they were playing monsters and maidens in Aegon’s Garden, pretending to chomp and gnaw on a piece of chicken bone he loftily declared was the horn of a bull.

“What does Wun Wun eat, I wonder?”    

“Vegetables, and nothing else,” came the surprising answer. “Lots and lots of vegetables. Three huge platters of roast vegetables every meal,” Devan said. “Roots and turnips and onions, mounds and mounds of them. Wun Wun is especially fond of onion.” His solemn face face broke into a rare smile, as he said, with amazement, “Even  _I’m_ not that fond of onion, and it’s on my sigil.”

Shireen giggled.  

“I have never heard him laugh, though,” Devan continued. “What did you say to Wun Wun to make him laugh, princess? Was it a jape?” Then, shyly, he added, “Will you tell it to me, too?”

Shireen blushed. Shaking her head, she said, “No, it was Patchface who made him laugh, not me. I think he wanted to make friends with Patches, but Patches was scared and tried to run away. Do you know Wun Wun’s real name, Devan?”

“No, he is always Wun Wun to the Black Brothers.”

“Do you know where he is right now?”

“Eating his dinner at Hardin’s Tower, I expect. He usually eats his meals slightly later than the rest of us.”    

“Hardin’s Tower? Where is that? Will you take me there?”

“Take you there? To see the giant?” Devan paled. “But my princess, it might not be safe. Your lady mother … Her Grace … she will not like it.” After a while, he added, “I do not like it.”

 _You must be protected and kept safe_ , Shireen almost expected Devan to say, echoing her mother.

 She wanted to be brave, like her mother, like her father. Like Devan too, who had refused to leave her father’s side through the worst of the fighting at Blackwater.

Besides, where else would she ever see a giant again, except here?

“He has never harmed anyone, has he? I don’t mean  _all_ giants, only Wun Wun specifically.”

Devan frowned. “Not so far as I know. But –“

“I only want to ask his name,” Shireen wheedled.    

Wun Wun was indeed eating his dinner when Shireen and Devan found him. He had already polished off two of the platters of vegetables, and was well on his way to finishing the last one.

He spotted her, standing at the entryway. “Little queen,” he called out, before standing up, too abruptly for his frame, it seemed, even though it looked quite slow to Shireen. He belched, the sound loud like thunder roaring mad before a storm.  

Devan moved swiftly, putting himself between Shireen and the giant. “We must go, princess,” he insisted.  

Shireen grasped Devan’s hand, propelling them both forward. “Look,” she said. “It’s fine.”

And it was. Wun Wun had sat down again. “Little queen,” he said.

“My name is Shireen.”

No response from Wun Wun.

She began again. “Shireen. Sh -“

“SHIREEN!” Wun Wun roared.

“Yes, yes,” Shireen nodded, beaming. Trying to recall his real name, she said, tentatively, “Wun Wag Wun?”

The giant shook his head. “Weg,” he said. “Weg,” he insisted.

“Wun  _Weg_  Wun?”

He shook his head again. “Dar Wun,” he said, quickly at first, then repeating the words more slowly and carefully, “Dar … Wun.”

Shireen frowned. That sounded so different, suddenly. What happened to -

He started again. “Wun Weg –“

“Oh!” Shireen exclaimed, finally getting it. “Wun … Weg … Wun … Dar … Wun. Is that it?”

“Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun,” he said, nodding vigorously.    

“Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun,” they said, together, all three of them, even Devan this time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a new drabble, it was posted in a different drabble collection before. I am doing some housekeeping and rearranging things : )

**Myrcella Baratheon & Trystane Martell**

Trystane sat beside her bed for days while Myrcella recovered. He read to her, not about the Young Dragon or the Conquest of Dorne as he was wont to do in the old days, but stories she had never read in books before, silly and funny, frivolous even. She wondered if he was making up the words himself. She did not feel like smiling, her thoughts haunted by the sword that took her ear and the axe that split Ser Arys in half, but she smiled nonetheless.

They played cyvasse, Trystane moving all the pieces, Myrcella giving the command for him to move her side of the board. He had learned to set his squares differently than he used to while she was gone, saving some of his elephants and mountains for the back instead of putting them all up front.

She still won the game. He still did not mind.

He asked her nothing of that day. Of why she left without telling him. Of where his sister was taking her.

In return, she did not ask him about Ser Arys’ fate. Or Princess Arianne’s.

Ser Arys was dead, Myrcella knew without asking anyone. Princess Arianne had screamed and cried too, like Myrcella did. Had she been hurt as well? But her scream was different than Myrcella’s own. It was a different kind of pain that had made Princess Arianne cried out, Myrcella knew instinctively.

Princess Arianne was not dead; Myrcella knew that much from Trystane’s calm countenance.

Trystane snuck a mirror into her room one day, at her request. Rosamund and the maids were under strict orders from her septa not to allow her a mirror. Myrcella did not wish for them to be in trouble with Septa Eglantine. Trystane was different. He was a Dornish prince and the septa did not have any power over him.

She  _did_  cry, when she saw herself in the mirror. He did not try to tell her that she was still a pretty girl, as if he knew she was not really crying for her lost ear.


	10. Chapter 10

> **_One day our great-uncle Ser Harbert told me to try a different bird. I was making a fool of myself with Proudwing, he said, and he was right. (A Clash of Kings)_ **

“She will not fly higher than that, lad.”

“She will! I  _know_  she will. She just needs more practice.”

Harbert sighed. The boy was as stone cold stubborn as his lord father.

_“Your cousin Aerys is not the man you once knew, Steffon.”_

_“He still is, Uncle, deep down, if only he would remember it. I am not prepared to give up on him just yet.”_

Proudwing soared and soared, high above the treetops. Stannis clapped and cheered with glee.  _Ah, if only …_

In truth, Stannis was still trying to coax his bird to take flight. “Maester Cressen said her injuries are completely healed. Why should she not soar as high as any other bird?”

“She’s afraid, lad. Lost her spirit. Never the same again. You can try and try, but you will not make her soar as high as Thunderclap.”

“I don’t care about Thunderclap.”

Harbert laughed. “Of course you do. I cared,  _very_  much, when my brother had the faster horse, the bigger sword, the stronger arms. Younger brothers are much the same anywhere.”

“But did Grandfather ever call your horse  _Weakwing_?”

“Why should he? Horses don’t have wings. Except in your drawings, of course.”

That managed to coax a smile out of Stannis. “They’re  _supposed_  to be dragons.”

Solemnly, Harbert said, “Even dragons can lose their spirit and be afraid to fly, let alone a bird.”

“She can be brave again,” Stannis insisted. “Or she can be afraid and still fly, but more carefully this time, so she won’t be injured again. Father said fear is useful. Fear makes us careful. Fear keeps us safe. Father said only a fool is never afraid.”

“And only a fool will continue doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different ending. How much time have you spent training Proudwing to fly again?” Longer than the time the boy had spent patiently nursing the bird back to health, Harbert knew.

Stannis refused to meet his great-uncle’s gaze. “She needs more time.”

“It’s time you try another bird.”

“I won’t abandon her!”

“Seven hells, Stannis! I’m not telling you to slaughter your goshawk for supper. Keep her if you wish, as a plaything, or for company. But you must try a different bird for hawking.”

Hard enough being a younger brother, hard enough living under the constant shadow, without your own foolishness making that shadow larger. 


	11. Chapter 11

 

> _“I’m a princess too,” Shireen announced, “but I never had a sister.” (A Dance with Dragons)_

The wildling princess had long, thick braided hair coming down to her waist. It reminded Shireen of the doll she had to leave behind in Dragonstone, the one whose hair she used to braid. The same doll she used to pretend was her sister. Shiera, that was her name. Shireen had found the name in a book about the descendants of Targaryen kings and thought it beautiful, a match for her own name.  

Shiera Seastar was a sorceress, the book said, like many people were saying Lady Melisandre was a sorceress. She had a heart-shaped face, just like Lady Melisandre. “Perhaps they’re related,” Shireen whispered to Mother, but only in jest, to make Mother smile.

Shireen’s Shiera was not a sorceress. She was a girl. But only in Shireen’s imagination. Father said we must always know the difference between what is true and what is a lie. But if you knew the difference, _truly_ knew the difference, then it was not wrong to pretend, Shireen reasoned. Not _all_ the time, only when she felt lonesome. It was not really a lie if you’re only pretending to yourself and to no one else, if you kept it a secret, and if you never, ever forgot that it was only a pretense.

Like a dream, but when you’re awake.

It was certainly better than her nighttime dreams of stone dragons coming to life and chasing her, trying to eat her.     

Shireen and Shiera. They were not twins, though. Shireen was the big sister and Shiera the little sister. “Hush now, don’t be afraid,” Shireen would whisper. “We’ll always have each other,” she promised. “I won’t let the dragons take you.”

But now Shireen was at Castle Black and Shiera was left behind in Dragonstone with all the stone dragons all around her. If the dragons were to wake, Shireen would be too far away to save her sister.  

“Princess,” Devan called out, waking Shireen from her daytime dream, from her pretense.

Shiera was not a real sister. It was just a pretty doll Shireen had loved playing with. Shiera was not in any danger because she was not real, because she did not really exist. No harm could ever come to Shiera, because there _was_ no Shiera, no sister for Shireen.

Shireen remembered. She didn’t forget after all.

Then why did she feel like crying, when she should be relieved?

“Princess,” Devan said, shyly, “would you like to visit Wun Wun again? He has been asking about the little queen.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will.”

Devan was not her sister, or even her brother, but he was a friend. Unlike Shiera, Devan was real – _very_ real. A truth, not a lie. Not even a pretense. And he had not left so suddenly with no word of farewell like her cousin Edric did. Or died like Maester Cressen did.

 _I’m glad Father didn’t take you with him_ , Shireen thought. She could not tell him that, though. She knew he was not glad to be left behind in Castle Black while her father marched to Winterfell, that he thought he was being punished for some wrongdoing he had committed, or that her father had not thought him worthy or capable enough for the task.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Shireen said instead.

 “I’m glad you’re at Castle Black too, Princess. As your lady mother said, Eastwatch is not safe,” Devan replied earnestly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Stannis Baratheon, Shireen Baratheon, Proudwing and Windproud**

 

“Why was your goshawk called Proudwing?”

“That was her name. What else would she be called?”

“But you _gave_ it to her, Father. You gave her the name. There must be a reason you chose the name.”

“I didn’t choose it. Your grandfather did.”

“He did? Then why did Grandfather choose that name?”

“He said it was a more suitable name for a bird than Wingproud, which was the name I originally wanted.”

“Wingproud. Like the name of Grandfather’s ship?”

“No, his ship was called _Windproud_.”

“Did you really like Proudwing better than Wingproud? Or did you use it only because your father wanted you to?”

“It _was_ a more suitable name. I thought so as well, after my father suggested it. And it pleased my father to hear me use the name Proudwing.”

“But _Father_ , you said we must not do things only to please others.”

“I said we must not do the things we know are wrong for the sake of pleasing others.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Shireen Baratheon, Edric Storm and Devan Seaworth**

Inspired by [**this wonderful fanart** ](http://lives-in-a-harpsichord.tumblr.com/post/144765931730/team-dragonstone-junior-shireen-is-the-queen-of)by **[lives-in-a-harpsichord](http://lives-in-a-harpsichord.tumblr.com/)**

________________________________

Continuing her story, Shireen said, “Then the Storm Queen rode her stag into battle –“

“You can’t ride stags into battle,” Edric protested. “You can hunt them, of course, my father often did. Though my father preferred hunting boars to hunting stags, Ser Cortnay told me. But you can’t ride them. They’re not horses.”

Shireen was unfazed. She didn’t miss a beat before replying, “This one was a very _special_ stag. Larger than a horse, and faster too.”

The two boys sitting cross-legged on the floor seemed unconvinced. “Close your eyes,” Shireen half-whispered. “Just imagine it.”

Edric was reluctant at first, but when he saw Devan closing his eyes, he quickly did the same.

“Such a majestic creature,” Shireen continued. “Bold and forceful, yet still graceful. Just like his rider.”

Eyes still closed, Devan shyly asked, “What is the stag’s name, Princess?”

This time Shireen paused. She had not thought of a name. Then inspiration struck. “Dragonsgrief,” she announced. “In honor of Durran Godsgrief, but it’s Dragonsgrief because the Storm Queen and her stag defied the Dragon King and his dragons, not the gods.”   

Shireen would have loved a Dragonsgrief of her own, to help her defeat the hungry, angry dragons chasing her in her dreams.

Edric and Devan had their eyes wide open now, looking eagerly at Shireen. “And then what happened?” Edric asked. “Was the Storm Queen victorious?” Devan queried.

“The Storm Queen and her army fought bravely and gallantly, but they were defeated in that battle.”

“No!” Edric and Devan both exclaimed in unison.

“She … she didn’t die, did she?” Devan asked, looking pale.

“No, of course not,” Shireen quickly reassured him. She wondered if Devan was thinking about his brothers, the ones who died at Blackwater Bay.

“Surely she was captured and made to bend the knee, and then paraded in chains across the realm as a warning to others,” Edric said.

“This is _my_ story, Edric. You can tell your story when it’s your turn,” Shireen said, irritated.

“Oh I wouldn’t want to. You are so much better with stories, Cousin,” Edric replied with his winning smile. Shireen smiled too, finally. She could not be cross with her cousin for long.

“The Storm Queen was forced to flee and hide in the rainwood. She took a wound, and Dragonsgrief was injured as well. But the Storm Queen vowed that one day she would return to free her people from the Dragon King. A wood’s witch who was said to be a descendant of the Green Queen treated her wound and nursed her back to health.”

“Is this the same Green Queen from Maester Pylos’ lesson?” Devan asked. “But … wasn’t the Green Queen a sworn foe of House Durrandon?”

Edric rolled his eyes. “It’s a _story_ , Devan. Not history.”                                                                         

Shireen was ready with her answer. “It’s true, the Green Queen had been a sworn foe of House Durrandon many, many years ago. But the Dragon King is now an even bigger and more menacing threat to everyone in the Stormlands, so her descendants thought it best to work together with the Storm Queen to defeat him.”

“And did they defeat him in the end?” Devan asked eagerly.

“Well, that’s a story for another day,” Shireen said, grinning.


End file.
